Black Rose:Grimoire
by Cyberpunk2909
Summary: A prophecy is coming and one BOS has all the answers. Are Morgan and Hunter willing to find them? R&R! Pretty Please!
1. Prologue

Title: Black Rose  
  
Part: The Wicked  
  
Author: Cyberpunk2909  
  
Webjournal:  
  
Fandom: Sweep Books series  
  
Rating: R  
  
On Going series: Roses of Binding series  
  
Classification(s): Song-fic based chapters (All chptrs)  
  
Warnings: Warnings?!....Warnings?! We don't need no stinkin warnings!!!!! Ur.....yeah.... EXTREME AU!!!!! I mean, of course this fan-fic will remain SOMEWHAT (lookie see, a big emphasis on the somewhat!:)) truthful to the series written by that goddess of an author, Cate Tiernan, but.....it just wouldn't be me to not screw with it in someway....SO.......Be prepare for a lotta angst, a lotta romance, and just all around weirdness, but in a good way....Why should I let YOU have it in a good way?  
  
Pairing(s): Cal/OC, Cal/Every character (with obvious exceptions ppl :p) Cal/Ciaran (Yes! I am a sick and twisted soul!!!!!!!!!  
  
A/N: As you can see in the above information that I have provided (it's all Noire Sensus' fault! Now I can't write anything without that info!) this is going be a slash pairing between two of Sweep's characters. What is slash? If you don't know, my little innocent buttercup, how delightful. It's a male/male relationship (Evil cackle accompanied free of charge). I couldn't help it, so flamers screw off! It's haunted my every waking hour, and it doesn't help that my best friend whispers in my ear nearly all the time: Man Sex! So, I have rewarded her pleas and my muses' constant batterings. ^_^This is a master piece....I think, and if Cate Tiernan reads this she just might condemn me for it. Woo-HA! _  
  
Another Note: It was partially inspired by this online quiz I took at , so poof-poof to the chick who'd made it up. I'm borrowing you stuff. I think the quiz is called: What rose is your soul bound to?  
  
(~ )this tells you it's a song (//) tells you it's a flash back(of thoughts of actions, don't worry just go with the story's flow)  
  
ON WITH THE SHOW! __________________________________________________________________  
  
Prologue  
  
~It's down to this I've got to make this life make sense Can anyone tell what I've done~  
  
//"I've got to go."//  
  
//"Why? There's no reason for you to." A hard look, desperation running through his veins, flashing like blazing fires in his brown eyes, deep and dark, almost black in the shadows.//  
  
//"She needs me."A calm exterior, but there is a light of sadness, so deep, so profound. This decision was killing him too.//  
  
//"I need you." Desperation fills his voice. "You can't-"//  
  
~I missed the life I missed the colours of the world Can anyone tell where I am~  
  
There was a slight warmth on a patch of skin just beneath his collar. Just a slight twinge, but his gaze was fixed firmly on the dancing flames across from him, burning in the hearth of the fire place. He sat, the bulk of a shadow, in a hard backed chair dragged out from of his study a while ago. How long ago he couldn't remember, enough that it almost seemed as if chair and man were one. And he dare not move from it now. He concentrated on the flames as a glass filled with wine the color of bloody rubies hung precariously from the loose grasp of his fingers of his right hand, drapped over the chair's arm.  
  
~'Cause now again I've found myself So far down, away from the sun That shines into the darkest place I'm so far down, away from the sun again Away from the sun again~  
  
//"She needs me."//  
  
But he needed him, and how in the equation of their fucked up lives did that messsage get lost? Since when-when their goal had been so close to being completed, when their dreams finally would have come true-since when did someone else figure into their lives? Since when was someone else allowed to destroy what little they had been holding onto? His hand clenched convulsively around his wine glass for a moment, as the warmth on his chest flared for a moment, burning like the single concentration of a candle's flame on his breast.  
  
It was the suthainn ceangal. The eternal binding. A small metalwork of twisting coils of pure gold and silver in the shape of a celtic knot. The one thing that was keeping him sane at this moment. Another rush of heat and warmth from that tiny twisting of metal. Something was happening. Miles and miles away....In a little town called Widow's Vale something was happening.  
  
~I'm over this I'm tired of living in the dark Can anyone see me down here The feeling's gone There's nothing left to lift me up Back into the world I've known~  
  
It hadn't been pleasant when he left. Not after he'd allowed those three dangerous words to slip from his mouth-//"She needs me."//-and hang in the air as if that were all the justification there needed to be. As if those words would placate the raging beast inside of him. Desperation had filled him, and anger. And as all beings know, the two emotions never mix well. His brown eyes had blazed with passion, with light, with life. With anger, with murderous, bloody red rage.  
  
//"I need you." Desperation fills his voice. "You can't-"//  
  
//"She's not strong enough against Selene. You know that."//  
  
//"You're not strong enough." The murderous beast was rising.//  
  
//"But I can stop her."Still bloody calm, bloody fucking calm.//  
  
He had rushed at him then, full of hot possessiveness and wrath. How could he throw away something that they'd worked hard for? Something that they wept about? Thought would never be? The goal was at hand, all they had to do was reach out for it...together....And he was willing to cast that all away? For some girl? For some bloody girl who could obviously handle her own? She had a bloody Seeker for a boyfriend for crying out loud.  
  
His eyes had gone wide when he'd rushed at him, the color of tiger's eye and deep amber depths, two liquid drops of eternity. The wide mouth that could give fantastic smiles when he wanted it to had parted then, not in a smile or in lust or pleasure, but in surprise and anger and hurt. And that body, that body of olive skin and perfect, divine curvatures, that body that was so pliable underneath skillful hands when they were making love, that body that owned the beautiful mouth and amber-like eyes, summoned its magick in defiance and equal anger.  
  
~It's down to this I've got to make this life make sense And now I can't do what I've done~  
  
His hands convulsed around his glass again. The red wine sloshed about its edges, spilling onto his hardwood floors, much like the blood that had been spilled those weeks ago, when he and his tiger-eyed lover last saw each other, when he and his olive skinned *leannan* had spoken of the girl so faraway in Widow's Vale, right now facing off with Selene Belltower.  
  
//"You won't go!" Harsh words and one well placed whiplash of witches' fire, blue, electric, potent and alive, cutting across his lover's cheek.//  
  
//"A flash of anger from deep within the depths of those amber eyes. "I HAVE TO!!!!" A retaliation of witches' fire, cutting across his chest. His brown eyes had widened in response.//  
  
So long ago.  
  
It felt as if the ages of man had passed away.  
  
The suthainn ceangal blazed.  
  
~And now again I've found myself So far down, away from the sun That shines the life away from me~  
  
It blazed, hot like the fires of hell, and he had to hiss when the heat became too much. Became more than just heat, became pain. His eyes grew wide and tore away from the flames. He pulled the little amulet from underneath his shirt, fire light glistening over its surface.  
  
There was a flash of something in the silver, and a movement of something in the gold. For a second he thought he was imagining things, that perhaps the wine had muddled his thoughts. But no--one learns in magick that nothing is coincidence, and he watched in dawning horror as a picture, a scene of life was slowly taking shape in the silver and gold surfaces of his suthainn ceangal  
  
~'Cause now again I've found myself So far down, away from the sun That shines into the darkest place I'm so far down, away from the sun~  
  
He saw Cal in the glistening surface--Cal. Beautiful, bright, blazing Cal, a Greek Adonis-- in the darkness of a room, somewhere in far away Widow's Vale, stepping from the shadows of a door way. His mouth parted, and he said something. He saw Selene, saw a brown haired girl and a blonde haired Seeker. He saw Selene release a dark spell, a powerful spell. Aimed at the girl. Saw Cal. Beautiful Cal. He cried out in turmoil. Saw Cal jump in front of the dark spell.  
  
It was as if the wind had been knocked from his body, as suddenly the suthainn ceangal lit up like a thousand suns caught up in the final flare before their death. All shadow fled in its wake and even the fire burning in the fireplace could not match its light.  
  
It felt as if his soul had suddenly been torn from his body, as if his heart had murmured one last resounding thump before stilling all together. His body shuddered convulsively, his vision went dark and his mind flashed with so many memories--he and Cal in Scotland, he and Cal at Yule, he and Cal in the garden, he and Cal making love.  
  
And then the feeling was gone. And the suthainn ceangal went dark and lifeless in his hand.  
  
Cal was dead. He knew with a certainty.  
  
Cal was dead.  
  
~That shines the life away from me To find my way back into the arms That care about the ones like me I'm so far down, away from the sun again~  
  
Ciaran McEwain threw his wine glass across the room and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces. 


	2. Book of Shadows

Author's note: Blah...blah....blah...lynch me later, I don't care. This is me story....WOO-HA! Okay, so here's chapter one. I'll admit only one fault of mine, Ciaran maybe alittle off curz I haven't gotten the books he's in curz everytime I get cash enough to go to the bookstore they're sold out. So, I've had to do some personality profile hunting and some webpage searching. So if I'm not doing him right, then tell me....Please?!! (*gives you puppy dog eyes*)  
  
Another A/n: Okay, maybe not every chapter has a song in it. Feeling kinda hard pressed to make the first part of this chapter with a song. Maybe the chapter'll have a song...I don't know. ______________________________________________  
  
Chapter One: Book of Shadows  
  
"We have to what?!!!"  
Sunlight was streaming in slanting beams from windows that sat above the musty room, reminiscent of an oldish library from some Arthurian legend of Merlin's keep. There were book shelves lining the walls filled with all kinds of books on archaic lore, miniature resurrections of small animal skeletons were beside them, white polished teeth like marble, grinning with death's mockery. The room itself was large by far, the size of one third of a football field by comparison. Its floors were hard wood and polished, what little of the wall that could be seen was painted an off white and the ceiling had a very beautiful chandelier hanging from it. Sunlight shone through it brightly, casting all kinds of rainbows around the room.  
Hunter was seated at the large, wooden table, able to seat nearly a hundred, arms crossed stiffly in his high backed chair. Consequently, he had been the one to make the loud out burst. Morgan sat next to him, staring at his former teacher, Kennet, in shock. And Danial Niall, though his face was stubbornly emotionless, more blantant and matter-of-fact, he was gripping the armrests of his chair in a viser-like hold that was turning his knuckles deathly white.  
"You heard me," Kennet replied in a flat, accented tone. "By order of the council. And you know that you cannot refuse the council's orders, Hunter."  
"Like bloody hell I won't!" Hunter shouted in an ungainly show of emotion. His normally cool exterior was shattered with the sudden rush of anger and adrenaline that was flowing through his veins. "D'you know what you're asking?!"  
"Hunter." His father's voice was like the blinding arc of a lighthouse cutting through the fog of a stormy sea. The younger Niall's green eyes snapped to his father's in desperation, a silent plea raging within their liquid depths. Danial didn't look at him, only focused a hard gaze at Kennet. He spoke slowly,"You do realize what you're ordering--what the council's ordering?"  
Kennet gave a slow nod as if it were costing him something very vital in that one slow movement. Danial nodded in turn.  
"Can you at least tell us why you're asking us to do this?"Morgan asked, speaking up for the first time, in a low voice.  
"For the good of all,"Kennet replied. Hunter snorted.  
"Bloody likely!" He exclaimed. "Is that the bleeding excuse the council told you to tell us?"  
Kennet fixed him with a heated glare. "Don't think that I'm not taking this with equal anger or consternation. I'm just not as vocal." He sighed. "Imagine, if you can, me being summoned by the council elders, very wary and suspicious of their want with me. I do not know what is to come when I am ordered to be seated and hear what they have to say. I sit, and they present to me a book. A battered, worn Book of Shadows. But not just any Book, no this looks quite familiar, for I have seen it in all of my investigations of its previous owner. Imagine my consternation, when the elders tell me that this Book, this one Book, may contain all the answers within its pages that just might save the world. That in its owner's mind there had been a key to unlocking the one thing that could save us. D'you understand what I'm saying?"  
"What do we need saving from?" Morgan asked tentively. Kennet met her trepid gaze grimly.  
"Another dark wave."  
The silence in the room had gone from a pin drop's notice to that of a mile-long chasm. There was no hiding the shock of Kennet's words. Not even Danial could muster up a stoical expression. He sat frozen in his seat as years of running, years of hiding and losing and sleepless nights and death and pain came floating back to him from across the mental barrier he had erected against such memeories. It was the present, the here-and-now, he hadn't had need of those old sorrows, he had a future to look forward too. But now......  
"D-dark wave?" His voice sounded small and faraway.  
"You're wrong," came Hunter's voice sounding alien to his ears. "We'd gotten rid of it. Alisa Soto...Selene Belltower....Ciaran McEwan--"  
"Which is exactly why we must preform the *tath meanma gradh*," He said quietly. "There's no other way. The spell will essentially work like a tath meanma, but only on objects. The objects essentially display the person's emotions at the time they were held or used. Those emotions become pictures, almost like a a replay of that scene in the individual's life."  
"But why," Morgan began, pulled out of her momentary stupor,"why do you need us?"  
"The ties the object's owner had with specific individuals, the ties that Sgath had with you,"Kennet explained. "With Hunter and Danial, there is blood. With you there was a form of l--"  
"Don't," Hunter hissed. Kennet gave him a long look and nodded before continuing.  
"There are two more individuals that must be called in," he said. "And the council has deemed that it will also be your job to bring them in."  
There was a sinking feeling of foreboding in everyone's stomachs. Danial asked,"Who?"  
"Ciaran McEwan and his youngest son, Killian," Kennet replied.  
"Are they out of their bloody minds?!!!" Hunter raged, his anger abruptly returning. "Ciaran summoned the bloody wave in the first place!! And Killian! He's almost as bad!"  
"Nevertheless,"Kennet began. "They are also part of the ties that bind. They must be summoned in as well."  
"We don't even know where to look," Hunter replied vehemently.  
"I do,"Morgan said in a quiet whisper. "I can get in contact with Killian and he can-he can show us where Ciaran is."  
"Indeed,"Kennet spoke quietly. "Indeed."  
"And when shall this ritual be preformed?" Danial asked in a professional tone that cut through the sudden silence.  
"Three days,"Kennet replied. "On the new moon."  
"Alright." Danial abruptly stood and walked swiftly from the room, letting the door close behind him with a gentle thud. They heard his retreating footsteps echo outside the meeting room's doors, until they finally disappeared.  
"I can't believe they would do this,"Hunter said angrily and stood. Morgan stood with him, and he, grabbing her hand, left in the same fashion as his father.  
  
(*_* ^_^ _ o.0 '_' x-\)  
  
"Are they out of their minds?!"  
Morgan sat numbly as Hunter raged in the car as he drove down the widing streets away from the council building and back into the small town where they were staying. Mr. Niall sat in the back seat, quietly looking out the window and observing the countryside. The sky was grey overhead with a few stray patches of blue that were slowly being covered over. The landscape below looked as dismal as the sky, the grren of the grass fading with the golden beams of the sun that had shone so brightly only a few moments ago in the meeting room. It seemed fitting.  
"They can't possibly expect us to do this," he said angrily rounding a corner in the dirt and gravel road."They can't possibly make you do this." That statement was directed at Morgan. She said nothing and focused on the road.  
They were in Europe on holiday. Morgan had finally turned eighteen and her parents consented to her visiting Hunter's home country on the condition that she called every night at 9 pm, American time. Her holiday had been going great....until this morning.  
She sighed and sat back in her seat as Hunter made another turn in the road and they entered the first tale-tell signs that they were coming back to the town. It was a charming little place with clapboard houses and cottages dotting the countryside, warm, welcoming town square with the schools, the businesses and a wonderful little Pub that played all kinds of music that fit everyone's tastes. Morgan was enamored with the town and its antiquity. It had been up and going for nearly a century.  
"There's no excusing this," Hunter growled bringing Morgan back from her momentary lapse of concentration.  
"Can you get in contact with Killian here? In Enlgand?" Mr. Niall asked from the back seat. Morgan jumped at his voice, all stoic and emotionless. She looked back saw his face. Much the same as his voice: placid and unyielding of its secrets.  
"Yeah,"Morgan replied wondering how he could be so placid at a time like this. He should hve been livid, but it seemed this situation had only driven him into himself where Goddess only knew how many emotions were raging inside: the loss of his wife, the fear that the dark wave had caused, all the death and destruction it had unleashed, and countless many other things.  
She turned away from Mr. Niall as Hunter drove into the town square and down a familiar street leading to their hotel: a cozy, three-story cottage with a small eating parlor, a garden that guests could stroll in and a steam house.  
"You shouldn't have to call them at all," Hunter said in an angry hiss. "I bet it's bleeding Ciaran. Somehow, in some way, he can't just stay the hell out of anyone's lives. He still manages to be an overall nuisance."  
Mr. Niall didn't say anything, and Morgan felt the silence drop around her like a hammer. She had to break it.  
"But Killian's not all that bad," she replied quietly. "He's--"  
"He bloody well would've sent you down the road of dark magick too," Hunter hissed again. "He's a bleeding prat."  
Morgan sighed. "Regardless, I hve to call him. And I'll have to do it when we get to hotel."  
Hunter fell quiet at that, and remained that way until they pulled up to the hotel parking. He parked and shut off the car Mr. Niall was the first to get out and head off to the gardens, the placid look slowly evaporating from his face. But before Hunter got out, he turned to Morgan and said,"You do what you have to do." He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissed each one of her knuckles. "I don't like this....And I'm not too fond of the council right now, but...Goddess, Morgan, I love you....And-And I'll protect you from whatever Cal's Book has to show us."  
She gave him a small grin and cupped his cheek with her free hand. "I know," she said and drew him close until their noses were only inches apart. "I know." He kissed her gently on the lips, finally deepening it, savoring the thrills running through their bodies, the hot and cold, the fire in their blood and the ice in their bones. Finally, they broke apart and went up to their hotel room. The minute they were inside, Morgan went to the phone and picked it up, dialling the number Killian gave her to reach him. She knew it by heart.  
When the other end was picked up, she barely gave her half-brother a chance to speak.  
"Hello--"  
"Killian...We need to talk..." 


	3. The Meeting

Author's Note: Y'know what I realized? I made Hunter abit....I don't know... Emotional in the last chapter ( :\) ....Ah well. I never liked him much anyway _..... Okay so...here's chapter three....Woo-HA! Gawd, isn't this oh-so exciting?!!!! No... Well, for me it is.....I'm probably making you crazy cats dance on your toes wonderin if this is going to be the slashy part or not, you dig? Well, worry not, it's hip! It's cool! I ain't jivin you yet.....Like my lingo? (o.0 ) ...yeah okay....on with the show! ^_^ ____________________________  
  
Chapter Two: The Meeting  
  
He wasn't necessarily panicking.  
  
Killian took a swig of his whiskey and felt it burn the insides of his throat on its purposeful path to his stomach.  
  
Okay...so he *was* panicking....But just a little. He heard a little nagging voice at the back of his head snort. He glared irritatedly at his silver whiskey flask. Definately needed to lay off the booze. If not to get rid of snorting voices in the back of his head then to be able to deal with his Da when the man showed up.  
  
He put the flask away.  
  
Then took it right back out again for another swig. Shows where his resolution went. Killian began to thump the surface of the table he was sitting at with nervous fingers as passerbys walked down the street laughing and carrying on. He couldn't fathom how they were acting as if nothing were amiss when impending doom was due here shortly.  
  
He was seated outside of a neat, little cafe, the menu written in Scottish just outside of the door with a nice looking waitress standing beside it and giving him the once over. And if this had been normal circumstances, he would've saddled up next to the cute burnette and flirted the pants off her. Literally. But as it stood, this was *not* a normal situation. Heavy emphasis on the Not.  
  
Killian waited a bit longer. Ciaran was still not here. Maybe he hadn't gotten Killain's message. Maybe the Goddess was finally shining down upon him. And maybe, just maybe, pigs were flying somewhere on some farmer's field and friggin' Peter Pan really *was* fighting off Hook in Never-Never Land.  
  
Yep, he really needed to lay off the booze.  
  
Morgan's call had come as a bit of a shock. He'd actually been sober and not planning on doing much of anything that day except lounging in his apartment and spending some off time away from the world.  
  
// He was lying in the bed, flipping through the channels of his television set, when his cell phone rang. Flipping off the set and running to get the phone, he thought maybe it was that nice looking red head he'd met at the Pub the night before--Melissa...Miranda....Something like that.  
  
"Hello--"  
  
"Killian...We need to talk."  
  
"Morgan?" he asked incredulously. And prayed that it wasn't any kind of bad news. His father being stripped of his magick had been bad enough. He hoped she hadn't discovered zombies or vampyrs infesting her brain in the shape of parasites or something....*That* would've just been beyond weird. "What're you--"  
  
"Killian, be quiet. For a second. Please?"  
  
And he shut up because the desperation in her voice sounded just that bad.  
  
"I need you to do something for me," she said quietly.  
  
"Like what?" he asked with some trepidation. There was a sigh on the other end.  
'Oh, now *that* can't be good,' he thought with dread.  
  
"I need you to get in contact with Ciaran and bring him here to England,"she said in a rush. He almost didn't hear her correctly, then her words hit him like a blow to the chest.  
  
"Morgan," he began,"You know how he feels about you...."  
  
"It's council business, Killian," she replied quickly.  
  
"Oh now that just bloody changes the whole situation now, doesn't it?" he demanded. "Oh yeah, I call him right now and tell him, "Da, dear, the council'll like to see you for some bloody good reason or other. Would you be willing to come?" I don't bloody well think so!"  
  
"Please, Killian," she begged.  
  
"And why, pray tell, should I do a stupid thing like that?"he aske vehemently.  
  
"Because there's trouble coming and they need his help as well your's," she replied. "It's about Calhoun Blaire, Selene's son. They have his--"  
  
He cut her off right there. That name. That Goddess-bedamned name. He never wanted to hear it uttered again. There was too much emotion that came with it. Too many memories. He didn't need to be reminded of past history.  
  
"Alright," he said hasitly. "Alright."//  
  
And that was why he was sitting there, on that chair, next to that cafe, waiting for his Da. If the bleeding prat of a man would show up. It was moving on twenty minutes, and Killian was losing his temper.  
  
"Am I fashionably late?" came the smooth, deeply accented voice that drove absolutely every women wild, and some men too. Killian turned at his father's approach. The man was dressed impleccably, dressed to kill, and he walked the walk of a tiger who knew who and exactly what was in his territory. The wind swept his brown hair and a bit of sunlight caught in his dark brown eyes.  
The waitress was now checking out Ciaran.  
  
He sat opposite Killian looking with mild interest at the cafe, its passerby and its menu. He gave the waitress a good once over too. Killian cleared his throat and Ciaran's gaze snapped to his, a predatory look coming into his eye.  
  
"Exactly, why did you call this little meeting?" he asked, waving the waitress over. "It can't be about money. Your mother has loads, and I told you to never ask me again." He ordered a dark coffee and a danish (author's note: even evil guys gotta enjoy a good danish every once in a while ^_^).  
  
Killian took one last swig of his whiskey before putting it away. Ciaran eyed it with a mix of interest and distaste.  
  
"Thought you were quitting," he said mildly. Killian gave a sheepish half smile as the waitress brought over Ciaran's order. But the older McEwan didn't touch the food or the drink. He pinned Killian to his seat with an intense gaze.  
  
"Uh,"Killian faltered. "Uh..yeah...why I called you? Um...well--"he rubbed the back of his neck nervously--"y'see...Morgan called...And--" he gave a momentary pause of fear as Ciaran's gaze intensified with anger. He blundered on--"Andshetoldmethecouncilhassummonedusforsomeofficialbusiness."  
  
If he hadn't already been afraid, he would've been reduced to a whiny, mewling school girl by now. His father clutched the armrests of his chair in some form of restraint as his jaw clenched tightly in a way that suggested he trying very hard to get control of the emotions that were waging war inside of him. Killian quickly took advantage of that, using the only trump card he knew.  
  
"It deals with Cal," he said quickly. Oops! Bad decision.  
  
The silence that settled about Ciaran McEwan was one that could rival the void in space. He sat like the megalith rocks of Stonehenge, staring down at his plate coldly, unmoving, not even as another breeze came whispering across his cheek and stirring his hair. When finally he spoke, it was not in that calculated tone he'd used before, it was the tone of silk, the calm before the violence of a storm erupted from the sky. He looked up and met Killian's fearful gaze, speaking slowly,"If you think for one minute, that I'm going to step foot on council grounds again--"  
  
"But, Da--"  
  
"DON'T YOU CALL ME THAT!!" Ciaran roared losing his cool. He shot up from his chair, ignoring the strange looks people were giving him. "I told you never to say his name. Never. Not ever again. And you throw it in my face, and that it pertains to council business no less--"  
  
"But, Da--"  
  
"SHUT UP!" he said viciously, very nearly jumping over the table. He restrained himself enough to fix his shirt and glare a seething gaze at everyone around them. The people quickly got back to minding their own business. He returned his gaze to Killian, who felt that now would be a good time to find that fabled rock to crawl under. "You tell that goddamned daughter of mine, you tell that bloody Seeker and his good-for-nothing father, because I know they put her up to this, that whatever they're bloody playing at they won't get any cooperation from me."  
  
He turned on his heel, leaving Killian to stare after him stunned.  
  
"Well, that went well," he said as the waitress came up to him timidly with Ciaran's bill.  
  
(^_^ 8.8 *-/ :8 _)  
  
"I told you it wasn't going to work," Killian said matter-of-factly over the phone line. Morgan gave a frustrated sigh. "He kindly told me-- well, not kindly , he was quite rude in fact--that no he would not be helping. Basically, in any shape or form."  
  
"Thanks for trying," she replied. It was his turn to sigh.  
  
"Trying? Trying? I could've bloody well been sent to an early grave, thank you very much," he said sarcastically. "Next time, you call him."  
  
Morgan rolled her eyes. "Nevertheless, you still can come."  
  
"Don't think I have much of a choice. While I don't actively like the council, I still follow something close enough to orders....I think. I'll get back to you when I'm sure." She heard him chuckle. "Now, my dear baby sister, I must get off the phone and get royally pissed. Pity you're not here, sounds like you'd do well getting pissed with me."  
  
She chuckled herself. "No, I'm not an alcoholic."  
  
"Alcoholic? I think I've just been insulted," Killian retorted with mock offense.  
  
"Good bye," Morgan said with a grin. Killian beyed(sp?) her good bye and the two hung up. Morgan sat by the phone for a while before standing and going into the tiny sitting room where Hunter and Mr. Niall sat drinking tea and talking in low voices. When she emerged into the room, the talking stopped and both men looked at her expectantly.  
  
"He said no," she replied.  
  
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Mr. Niall exclaimed suddenly shooting from his chair and nearly spilling his tea. He put the hot cup down and went to the sitting room's lone window opening out to a view of the garden.  
  
Morgan looked at him in surprise. Hunter sighed and her gaze quickly went to him as he quickly put down his cup and rubbed his temples slowly.  
  
"Figured on him being a prat," he said in a tired voice. "A stupid, mangy prat. I'll have to call Kennet. See what must be done about this."  
  
"Now?" Morgan asked slightly incredulous. Hunter nodded.  
  
"We've only got three days before the spell has to be preformed," he explained. "If Kennet says we need those two, then we've got to figure out how to obtain them."  
  
"Killian's complying," Morgan replied defensively. Hunter shrugged.  
  
"At least one of them has sense," Niall said from the window, glaring out at the garden. "I'm going to my room." And took his leave quickly.  
  
"What's--"  
  
Hunter waved the question away. "He's taking this pretty hard. " He laughed bitterly. "But he's trying to be the strong one." He stood and went to the door. "I'll be right back." And went out to make his phone call. Morgan took his seat and sipped his tea, loving the soothing warmth that filled her body, pooling in her stomach and easing away the stress of the past few hours. She could feel the power of the herbs inside of the cup, but didn't necessarily want to take the time to use her magick to discern each and every plant used. They were doing fine without her knowing who they were.  
  
The phone call must have not taken very long because Hunter came back with a scowl etched deeply in his pale face. He looked up when stepped into the threshold of the doorway, new anger brimming his green eyes.  
  
"What is it?" she asked standing and going to him. She took his face in her hands. "What--"  
  
"We go to Scotland," he said simply, and turned away from her, leaving their room and going in the direction of his father's.  
  
Well, so much for a soothing tea. ______________________________________________  
  
Well, look, the chapter's ended...........................  
  
Okay, so, how'd I do on Ciaran....Did I make him mean enough....I mean, emotional outbursts aside was he good enough to be a Ciaran McEwan most people could call their own....Okay, okay, so maybe HE would object to being someone's pet ( most of all mine....can we say strawberries and cream anyone? Oh Gawd!! Bad mental images! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!) But really....how'd I do? (*gives you the puppy dog eyes again*) R&R's are most definately welcome. 


	4. Ticket to Heaven

Author's Note: You know....I don't know why there are only two reviews...but, eh....I roll with the punches, some people like it, some people don't. I goes with the flow. Okay, so, here's a song-fic chapter! (*Gives a little dance*). WOO-Ha! On with the show! _______________________________________________________  
  
Chapter Three: Ticket to Heaven ( named after the song from '3 doors down')  
  
~I'm walking a wire, it feel likes a thousand ways I could fall To want is to buy, but to live is to die and you can't take it all~  
  
The sky was dark with the coming storm rolling over the coast from the sea. The waters of the great ocean were frothing like a giant mixing bowl, all greying and dark sickly green as if the sea itself were sick from some ailment that inflicted the earth. There was a dark wind stirring from the heavens and a wail sounding from some where in the night, a banshee of ancient lore coming back to haunt the minds of the living that still believed in such things of the dead.  
  
The streets were empty beneath one lone window, standing open to the storm. A candle's flame flickered from within the window's room, casting long, dark shadows against the walls. They were wallpapered with a deep, forest green and covered with a few finely painted pictures and the occassional candle holders in antique metalworked design. The floor was covered in dark- colored rugs that accented the walls and the woodwork around the floor boards. They were covered with scattered papers and a few books cracked open on their spines, flung wide to any random page. The lonely lit candle rested atop a desk, shining on a face covered in deep shadow, the lines of age deepening with the flame's flickering dance.  
  
~And everything is said and done I won't have one thing left What happened to everything that I've ever known~  
  
Across town, an apartment sat dark and lonely, empty of women's laughter or the sounds of shared booze. There was silence save the coming storm and the flickering of figures across a black and white TV set of some 1950s show when happier times reigned and the tale-tells signs of coming doom were not thick in the air.  
  
A figure rested on a bed, covers stacked ontop of their prone body, seemingly trying to keep the world from contaminating their sorrow. A few bottles of beer rested upright or toppled over beside the bed and the figure shifted and muttered a name into the silent air.  
  
"Sgath..."  
  
~All he gave me was this ticket to heaven, that ticket to heaven, said to lie in the bed that you make~  
  
There was a flash of lightning as the sea shook within its depths and the very foundations of the deep rumbled with barely contained fury. It were as if the sea gods were angry with mortal kind. The candle flickered and the one staring intently at it turned his attentions away from the fiery dance, turned and faced the sea where once, along time ago, a boy of sixteen had dived into the driving surf like an olive-toned dolphine and had matched wits with the sea.  
  
A body of pure liquid movements and magnificent strokes. A body whose magick had moved and glided with every beautiful hand dipped into the waters and every propulsion of divine feet. A Perseus sprung out of legend to haunt his mind forever.  
  
Ciaran gripped the arms of his chair and stared out his window at the storm, awaiting its fury and anger.  
  
~Now I'm restless and I'm running from everything, I'm running from everything, I'm afraid it's a little too late~  
  
Killian was jarred awake with the crash of lightning and he sprang to his window, staring out, eyes wide with fear. He hadn't felt this way in a long time. A long time. He tried to catch his breath, tried to take in a gulp of air that would still the rapid beating of his heart and calm the roaring in his ears.  
  
"Oh Goddess...." His voice trailed off in agony. "What had we done? Why didn't we stop him?"  
  
A crash of lightning and a rumble of thunder, then the rain came pouring down from the heavens, driving to the earth in fat droplets of Mother Nature's power. Killian jumped back from the window, eyes widened, mouth parted in shock. In the window. A reflected picture floating up from the past.  
  
A wide mouth parted in a haunting smile.  
  
Gold eyes flashing like stars with barely contained mirth.  
  
Hands, moving with magick.  
  
Hips.  
  
Lips.  
  
Legs that spoke power when they ran.  
  
Killian covered his face with his hands and choked back a sob.  
  
~It's all voices lie, innocents die, now ain't that a shame And all your dreams, and all your money they don't mean a thing~  
  
Another crash of lightning, and the rain came pouring into his window. But he didn't move, didn't shift one inch from his position in his chair. He stared out at the chaos outside and reckoned it to the chaos in his heart.  
  
So long ago. Years ago. A thousand years it seemed, but still never enough. A dream had been born, shaped and sculptured as if the Goddess herself had forgiven him his transgressions against Maeve Riordan. As if he were allowed a second chance to love and take what love had to give him. Take what Cal had to give him, and thus give in return. It had been blissful; a dream that would never die....  
  
The sky let loose another round of thunder and another shock of yellow- white lightning, electric, lighting the land below it in a still scene of real life: the empty streets, the trees as they shook in their places and their leaves tossed in a sea of green, the other hundreds of people in their dark apartments, peaceful, sleeping, waiting out the storm.  
  
Ciaran would never get any rest. Mother Nature, after such a long time of waiting, was finally coming to collect her due and seek revenge against him for letting one of her beautiful children die.  
  
"But I couldn't...." he whispered to the storm. "I couldn't save him......"  
  
~When everything is said and done, you won't have one thing left What happened to everything that I've ever known~  
  
Killian looked up as tears stained his cheeks. The window was bare of its ghastly image from the past. Bare of the memories that hurt more than seeing any picture or reading any Book of Shadows. Killian didn't want to remember, but then he couldn't forget.  
  
He stumbled out of his room as another burst of lighning lit up the sky in a shock of electric intensity. He stumbled passed the going TV to his fridge, flinging the door open wide and reaching a shaking hand into the cool innards of the machine, scattering other bottles and them crashing to the floor and him not caring. He pulled out a cool can of beer. Shaking, he popped the top and took a swig. The cool, biting liquid went down his throat and he waited expectantly for the buzz...anything to get him away from remembering.....  
  
He turned away from his fridge taking another swig. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled and the rain came from the heavens with the fury of a monsoon. Killian dropped his bottle and screamed.  
  
The image on the screen had warped itself.  
  
"In-fucking-possible," Killian whispered in disbelief.  
  
Golden eyes were on the screen, only in black in white. And that wide mouth was smiling. That hair, black and like chinese silk, was wind tossed as a breeze came rushing in from the Scottish coast. The head it all belonged to was tilted back, drinking up the sun. The head turned to his direction and that mouth smiled wider this time, more open than it could ever be with his mother.  
  
Killian collapsed to the floor.  
  
~All he gave me was this ticket to heaven, that ticket to heaven, Said to lie in the bed that you make~  
  
"I COULDN'T SAVE HIM!!!!" Ciaran shouted at the fury of the storm. He shot up from his chair and went to the window, leaning out. His face was creased in anger and pain. "I COULDN'T SAVE HIM, DAMN YOU!!!!"  
  
Lightning crashed. Thunder roared and Mother Nature threw her strongest wind at him, pushing him back into his apartment, back into his chair, and he sat with a defiant thump. The banshee wail settled down about his ears in frenzy and he threw his head back, eyes closed. Images flashed into his brain.  
  
A naked body.  
  
Olive skin revealed to his capable hands.  
  
A hiss of pleasure from wide lips.  
  
Skin against skin.  
  
Sweat.  
  
A kiss. A soul burning, heart wrenching kiss.  
  
Blood turned to ice.  
  
Bones to fire.  
  
"Stop." Ciaran's eyes flung open. "Oh Goddess, stop..."  
  
~Now I'm restless and I'm running from everything, I'm running from everything, I'm afraid it's a little too late It's a little too late~  
  
Killian tried to breath this time. He really tried. But his lungs didn't seem to want to work, and he couldn't turn away from the pictures on the screen. Couldn't turn away from Cal. Couldn't turn away from his memories being replayed to him.  
  
It was Yule, and Cal......They'd tried a different spell. After Ciaran had conducted the main celebrations' duties, he'd snuck away, with Killian's help, of course. And he and Cal had been in the garden. Blankets of snow covering the ground around them, flakes dancing from the cloudy night sky. They'd both been sky clad, conducting a most forbidden magick....a binding of souls....with the suthainn ceangal.  
  
It had been hard to tell where one body had began and the other ended, when the magick had started.  
  
Killian watched that instance of time replayed on the screen, watched the light flare about his father and Cal's bodies, watched as the magick took its immediate effect......He watched even as his eyes began to blur with tears and his heart began to ache......  
  
"Goddess, Cal..."  
  
~All he gave me was this ticket to heaven, that ticket to heaven, Said to lie in the bed that you make Now I'm restless and I'm running from everything, I'm running from everything~  
  
Ciaran buried his face in his hands as the winds slowly died down and the rain became a light sheen covering the earth.  
  
"Goddess, I tried--"  
  
A flash of black hair and fingers going through it in an absentminded movement, an agile tongue darting from a mouth to coat dry lips. Said lips leaning in, closely, so close. Ciaran lifted his face in time to feel a memory brush across his lips and shiver from the remembered fire.  
  
He opened his eyes to find himself alone in his apartment.  
  
"Where are you, Cal?"  
  
~I'm afraid it's a little too late~  
  
______________________________________________________________  
  
A/N: Whoa!  
  
Okay, so what d'you think? I mean, I wanted to show a very different side to our huggable villain Ciaran and our very drunkable Killian ( I lurv them oh so much.) So, tell me was this out of character enough to be in character for these two? Could you imagine them acting this way should this kind of situation come up? Or am I messing with them for my own wicked pleasure? Okay, don't answer the last one. ^_^. R&R's are welcome, flames will be sent to my muses to cook up more of these juciey beauties ;-) 


	5. Scotland

Author's Note: Oh so sorry I haven't posted in a while, but you guys know what irritants schools can be and they just won't let me off, I tell you. THEY JUST WON'T LET ME OFF!!!! WAAAHHHHHH!!! Okay, so here's chapter four, I believe. Thanks for all the great reviews!!!!!!! ____________________________________________________________  
  
Chapter Four: Scotland  
  
"We ready to go?" Hunter asked as he loaded the last of their things on top of the car roof. Mr. Niall hoisted a large duffel bag up top, dusted off his hands and nodded.  
  
"Ready to go," Morgan said, but her voice was far from chirper. She climbed into the car with a sense of dread hanging about her shoulders and a heaviness clinging to her heart, knowing, without a doubt, that this day was going to end bad.  
  
Hunter reasoned it was going to take them a full day traveling from England to Scotland, and that it wouldn't make much sense in paying for room and board at the town, in a hotel they would've left after a few days anyway. Morgan's trip to Europe was only supposed to last a week and a half, and the week was almost over. Her family, Bree and Robbie would've expected her back, but the council's newest meddling in her life put a big dent in her plans.  
  
Morgan sighed and strapped into her seat as Hunter started the car, thinking back on the conversation she'd had with Bree over the phone the night before.  
  
//"So, how's England?" Bree asked, a distant sound of music filling the phone with background noise.  
  
Morgan sighed.  
  
"That sigh can't be good," Bree commented with some concern. Morgan nibbled her lip, debating whether or not to tell Bree about the council's orders-- she wasn't even going to dignify this invasion of her life by calling it a request.  
  
Finally," It has something to do with the council and their latest in screwing with my life."  
  
This time Bree sighed. "What is it?"  
  
Morgan nibbled her lip again. Should she tell her? She swallowed a dry throat. After all, Bree and Cal had...had...done...things. She shouldn't keep her friend out of this. But, then again, Cal had been the main reason why she and Bree had split in the first place. Making her decision, Morgan said," It deals with Cal."  
  
There was a long silence over the phone. Morgan's brow furrowed as the silence lengthened, then," What do they want to dig up the past for?"  
  
Morgan gave a relieved sigh, and said,"It's what's in Cal's past that can save us."  
  
"What?" Bree asked, her voice sounding puzzled. Morgan went on to explain why the council had summoned her, Hunter and Danial Niall, and even as far as to say that the council needed Killian and Ciaran. She told her about the ritual and what it would entail. And about the next dark wave.  
  
Bree went silent again. Then,"But why do they need Ciaran and Killian?"  
  
Morgan shrugged even though Bree couldn't see it. "I never asked, but I don't think they'd tell us anyway."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Morgan shrugged again."I get the feeling that alot of this is all hush- hush."  
  
"Cal's life? But didn't they do investigations? Didn't they burn his body? Why do they want to do this?"  
  
"Dark Wave," Morgan said. "It all has something to do with stopping another dark wave."  
  
"Who could possibly have enough power to bring about another one?"  
  
"Maybe some old Amyranth members? Who knows," Morgan replied.  
  
"Look, I gotta go," Bree said slowly. "Mom's calling, but hey! D'you want me to tell Robbie? Or Kithic?"  
  
"I don't know," Morgan said doubtfully. "I think you should wait to tell Kithic, but tell Robbie. He should know about this."  
  
"Right. Bye."  
  
"Bye."//  
  
Thinking back on it now, Morgan had to wonder what Bree was doing right now- -what Robbie could be doing right now. If either were preparing for the worst. Was she even right in telling her friend? Maybe she should've waited until everything was confirmed.  
  
Morgan nibbled her lip.  
  
They left the small, quaint township, driving into the deep country of England. They made few pit stops on the way, and Morgan contented herself with just staring out the window at the changing landscape. They spotted few farms, just open country and changing roads--some paved, some asphalt and some made of wide, dirt paths.  
  
Morgan sighed and settled into her seat, dreading when they'd cross the border of England and enter Scotland. ***********  
  
He was expecting the worst.  
  
And typically when he expected the worst, fate never failed him.  
  
Killian sat on the floor of his apartment, cross-legged, twiddling his fingers, a beer--rapidly turning lukewarm--at his side. He just stared at his fingers, brows creased in a frown, thinking--or at least trying not to.  
  
Outside his apartment, down on the streets below, there were tell-tale signs that a storm had hit. Debris--tree branches, signs, trash, a few patches of overturned earth--were flung this way and that, some blocking the roads, lying in doorways, or on roof tops. It were as if Mother Nature had taken her fury out on mankind that night, and left a little reminder of her power.  
  
Killian gave a shaken sigh.  
  
Tried to empty his mind.  
  
Couldn't.  
  
Cal kept on showing up. Smiling. Eyes sparkling.  
  
Memories after memories, pouring themselves into his mind.  
  
Killian bit his lip until it hurt.  
  
"*Sitting there's not gonna help.*" It was the faintest, amused whisper, but Killian snapped his head up fearfully and looked around for the source of the voice.  
  
What the fu--  
  
"*We have a ritual. And you've gotta help.*"  
  
Killain turned wildly, looking everywhere--the corners, his closet, the kitchen, his living room--trying to find the owner of that....that...that...voice.  
  
"*It'll be Yule officially in a couple of hours, Kill.*"  
  
Killian shot up from the floor, sending his beer bottle toppling over and spilling its contents on the floor. He spun wildly, lost his balance and landed on his rear, facing the door.  
  
His eyes widened.  
  
"What the fu--"  
  
"*We'll need your help.*"  
  
"Oh Goddess, no--" Killian's mouth fell open.  
  
He blinked.  
  
Stared.  
  
Blinked some more.  
  
This could not be happening, he reasoned. It was just the beer talking.  
  
Despite the fact that he'd only taken one sip. But a sip could affect someone's brain, right?  
  
Oh Goddess.  
  
"D-d-don't c-c-come any c-closer!" Killian croaked, backing away.  
  
"*Don't forget about the ritual. Ciaran won't ask for help, but I'm not so high and mighty that I won't. We'll need a look out*"  
  
"Please don't come any closer," Killian begged, burying his face in his hands.  
  
He felt the lightest caress on his shoulder.  
  
He screamed and looked up.  
  
Golden eyes.  
  
Wide lips.  
  
A familiar face.  
  
Oh Goddess.  
  
Oh shit.  
  
"But you're dead."  
  
"*Don't forget about the ritual. It's tonight.*"  
  
"You're dead."  
  
Killian watched as the olive-skinned apparition moved about his apartment, picking up things and putting them down. Golden eyes turned to his frozen figure on the floor. The wide mouth smiled wickedly.  
  
"*I can't wait.*"  
  
"C-C-Cal?" Killian finally asked. The apparition looked at him imploringly. "You're dead."  
  
"*It'll be Yule officially in a couple of hours, Kill.*"  
  
"No, Cal, Yule's over. You're dead."  
  
"*It'll be Yule officially...*"  
  
It was game. A sick and twisted game.  
  
"Cal, please...Just go."  
  
"*...in a couple of hours, Kill.*"  
  
"Cal-"  
  
"*....Yule officially...*"  
  
"Cal-"  
  
"*...in a couple of...*"  
  
Like a broken record of time, a single memory captured, played out before him, like a sick, twisted movie, a single moment, played over and over and over and over.........  
  
He didn't want to live this again.  
  
"*It'll be Yule officially in a couple of hours, Kill.*"  
  
"Go away."  
  
"*...Yule...*"  
  
"Go 'way."  
  
"*...in a couple of...*"  
  
"Go...away."  
  
"*...of hours, Kill.*"  
  
"GO AWAY!!!!"  
  
It was then that Killian awoke, alone and shivering in his apartment, a light sheen of rain, falling cold against his window, blurring the dark, nighttime sky outside.  
  
He'd been asleep all day.  
  
His head snapped this way and that, wildly searching for....Him. But He wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere.  
  
It was all a dream.  
  
A dream.  
  
Killian breathed deeply and shivered again.  
  
"Where are you Cal?"  
  
And then the door bell rang. ************  
  
It hadn't taken them as long as she thought to get to Scotland. By the time they arrived, the sky was cloudy with a ligh rain falling in tiny droplets from the churning heavens. The sun, where ever it was hiding behind the clouds, was just starting to set as Hunter pulled onto a busy street of an obvious Scottish suburbia.  
  
And then it was Morgan's turn to take over.  
  
In addition to his phone number, Killian had also given her his home address, just in case she was "ever in Europe and wanted to get away from her uptight, prick of a boyfriend." Killian's words, not her's.  
  
Morgan, armed with a map, directed them to a nice apartment complex, the apartments looking much like they do in America. Morgan was greatful for that. At least there was some resemblance to home.  
  
They got out of the car, squinting against the rain.  
  
Hunter stood beside her as Mr. Niall surveyed the apartments.  
  
"Which one's his?" Hunter asked. Morgan frowned, then pointed. Hunter nodded, waved to his father and the three set off.  
  
She had been expceting a jovial older brother to meet her at the door, with a grin that seemed perpetual. She did not expcet a wreck.  
  
When they got to they door, they rang the bell.  
  
It opened.  
  
Killian looked like a caged animal, circles around his eyes and his hair a mess. He kept on darting looks over his shoulder and everywhere beyond their little trio standing outside his door, and when his eyes finally settled on Morgan, she saw a maniacal glint in them.  
  
"Killian, are you-"  
  
"Fine? Fine? Oh, I'm just peachy, love." He ushered them inside. The place was a mess.  
  
He didn't seem to care.  
  
"So, what're you doing here?" He sounded nervous and shot scared looks around his own apartment.  
  
"We're here for Ciaran," Mr. Niall said unkindly. Killian didn't notice. His eyes instead widened and he turned to Morgan.  
  
"He won't see you," Killian said, almost in panic. "He won't. I asked him, Morgan. He's f-f-furious." Killian began to shake.  
  
"Killian," Morgan grabbed him and sat him down on a nearby couch. "What's wrong? I've never seen you like this."  
  
"Storm's got me jumpy," he replied and tried for a weak grin that looked more like a grimace. Eventually, he just stopped trying.  
  
"We can't leave without his help, Killian," Hunter said, his tone of voice in the same fashion as his father's. Morgan shot him an angry look.  
  
"You can try all you like," Killian said, shoting a glare at Hunter. And while Morgan knew she should've been ashamed, she was glad that Killian had mustered up even that much enmity to snap at Hunter. "He's not going to listen to you. He hates you."  
  
"Regardless," Mr. Niall said tightly. "He has to come."  
  
Killian shrugged.  
  
"Will you take us to see him?" Morgan asked. Killian shrugged again.  
  
"Please, Killian."  
  
Her half-brother looked at her strangely for a moment, then passed her to something on the wall, frowned, then nodded.  
  
"O-o-okay."  
  
But she wasn't sure if it was her he was saying yes to, or this strange affliction that had taken hold of him. _________________________________________________  
  
Author's Note: Oh gosh, I'm so sorry I haven't posted in a while, but now I'm back at school. I think I've said this before. Oh well. Like what I did to Killian? I made him paranoid. Don't worry. I've got to build him up in order for the next chapter to make some semblance of sense. Note I said some. Anyway, reviews are golden. 


	6. The Ties that Bind, Part One

Author's Note: Tis inexcusable. I shall be punished greatly for not posting...But I warned ya, didn't I? I'm a lazy bum, and sometimes it could take a month or two for me to post an update.hey, here comes Ciaran!!!!! Everyone take a bow...No? Okay, well, anyway, on with the show!!!  
  
Chapter Five: The Ties that Bind, pt 1  
  
The air was thick with tension, filling the four passengers seated stiffly in the car with nervous anxiety as it sped down the narrow roads of Scotland's sweeping, hilly landscape. Morgan felt like she was being smothered beneath a thick, woolen blanket, and the foreboding warning of Dante flashed angrily in her mind: 'Abandon all hope ye who enter here'; nothing good could come from summoning Ciaran.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Her brother sat apprehensively beside her, and Hunter and his father sat stonily silent up front—Hunter darting a cross gaze at Killian every mile or so as they drew closer to their destination.Killian didn't notice. He sat staring forlornly out the window, his brown eyes dull and unseeing, as if he were staring at a world beyond this, somewhere deeply rooted in the past.  
  
Last night had not been what she wanted her first night in Scotland to be like. Every hour she'd been awoken by Killian muttering incoherently in his sleep, and weeping.  
  
Disturbing.  
  
She wasn't used to this. Had she some how caused it with her phone call? Had Ciaran done something to him? For, though the man had had his powers stripped from him, he was still as dangerous as ever. Unlike other witches, Ciaran had resources.  
  
Dangerous resources.  
  
"So," she began timidly. "You say Ciaran lives out here, Killian? What about his wife? And-And Kyle, is it? And Iona?"  
  
He seemed to come to for a moment, frowned and nodded slowly. "He doesn't live with Mam. And Kyle and Iona are out visiting our uncle on the other side of Scotland right now. Won't be back 'til next week."  
  
"Oh," she said softly, a bit disappointed. Maybe, if they'd been there, Morgan could have scheduled a meeting to see her other siblings. She smiled at his puzzled look. But he didn't return it. Soon he was turning back to stare out the window, at the endless, grassy terrain and the sheet of grey covering the sky in low, thick clouds. She looked away and met Hunter's heated gaze in the rearview mirror.  
  
She shook her head and turned to stare out her own window. Killian seemed to be getting worse. The closer they drew to Ciaran, the more his vacant look seemed to overtake his face and the more he just stared dejectedly out the window at the passing landscape. She was really worried about him. What had Ciaran said to him, when she'd asked Killian to speak to their father? Or worse, what had Ciaran done?  
  
"We'll be getting there shortly," Killian spoke up after an eternity of silence. Morgan jumped at the intrusion of sound. His voice sounded hollow and lost. Morgan watched him anxiously as a tendril of disquiet traced its way up and down her spine.  
  
The compound sat silently, hidden within the sloping hills of green, wind-swept grass, as they pulled into a graveled driveway. Morgan was the first to hop out of the car and look around. There were four, squat one-story buildings, standing in a tight circle, each with thatched roofs and stone chimneys, slate grey in color. Just around the bend of one of the houses were the faint traces of blooming flora in the air, and she caught a fleeting glimpse of flowering plants and herbs. Her magickal senses reached out and felt the essences and spirits of almost all the individual plants. This garden was enchanted, but by what spells she could not fathom.  
  
The entire place was closed off from the rest of the land with a white washed fence, which opened up to far away pastureland. She saw the distant, bulky shapes of grazing livestock. It was a picturesque little setting, quiet, peaceful. It sat far away from any town or intrusion from outside forces. Almost like a small community in itself.  
  
"So...."Morgan turned to Killian as he got out of the car slowly. "This is where Ciaran lives?"  
  
He nodded quietly. "I suppose. He comes out here a lot. It's where he ought to be."  
  
"There's magick in this place," Hunter said suspiciously. Morgan nodded in agreement. Just underneath the surface of her senses. It was there: the kiss of magick, the driving force of this entire compound. She felt concealment charms and spells as well, perhaps to keep this place out of the way of prying eyes and wayward travelers.  
  
"Who else lives here?" Mr. Niall asked. Killian flinched slightly before answering, then said, "Some members of MacMurdach Coven, and others. Mostly, high priests and priestesses, and some people just passing through."  
  
"No dark magick," Mr. Niall said quietly, looking about him in puzzlement.  
  
Killian shook his head. "Not allowed here. It's a place of neutral ground. If you cast your senses out, you can feel some of the spells that prohibit the workings of dark magick here."  
  
And Morgan felt those too.  
  
"Amazing." This coming from Danial Niall, who looked around with some appreciation.  
  
Morgan turned back to the compound and squared her shoulders.  
  
"Well, let's go," she said determinedly. "We've got to get Ciaran and bring him back to the council for that spell on Cal's Book."  
  
Hunter nodded, and together, lead by Killian, they walked into the compound. They passed through the fence and entered into a large courtyard. At the center of it was a fountain where a stone statue of a woman sat. She was seated on a beautiful throne, her arms open, welcoming to all who entered. Her face was obscure, having been worn away by the elements and time, but Morgan knew, with out a doubt, that at one time, she had been breathtaking.  
  
At the stone woman's feet rested overturned water jugs which released the spray of the fountain, and a small diminutive man, nude, slender, with fairy wings. His stone hands were reaching up to grasp hold of the woman's flowing robes. From the fountain, four cobblestone walkways branched off towards the buildings, lined with herbs of protection. Morgan knew. She could hear their earthy voices floating to her mind.  
  
"Where to—"  
  
She never got to complete her sentence, for at that moment an old man hobbled out of one of the buildings. His face was a gnarled, ancient thing, a cross work of wrinkles like cobwebs cut through his skin. He walked with a limp and was muttering to himself, yanking at the cap on his head and fixing his shabby coat.  
  
"Angus!" came Killian's voice. Morgan turned to him in surprise. Her eyes widened. He was smiling. He was actually smiling, and for once since this whole thing had started, he was looking like his old, playful self. The old man looked up, alarmed at the shout, squinted his eyes then grinned a wide, waning smile, missing two front teeth.  
  
"Fancy seein' ye here," the old man, Angus, said in a bright voice that sounded like shuffling parchments and windblown sand. "What be yer business, lad?"  
  
"Nothing much, Angus. Nothing much," Killian said, his eyes lighting up. "Where's Da?"  
  
Angus' gaze went shadowed for a moment and he glanced quickly back, towards the doorway he came from. He turned back to Killian and eyed him cautiously. He said," I felt strange energies as ye were comin' up the road. Ye brought with ye some councilmen, aye laddie? There be many here that don't take kindly to their types, especially no' ye faither. I canna let ye into the houses, but ye faither's in the clearing with some of the others, overseein' the Rites."  
  
"Right," Killian replied gravely and nodded towards Angus. "Next time, hopefully, I won't come for business."  
  
"I doubt tha' verily much," Angus said, and watched as Killian led them away from the houses, around one bend and out towards the garden.  
  
"What did he mean by 'overseeing the Rites'? He is not allowed to cast anymore. Nor can he really," Hunter growled angrily. "What kind of place is this?"  
  
"A place where no dark nor light magick can be made," Killian replied a touch of vehemence in his voice. "A place where only magick is cast to strengthen the wards."  
  
Hunter looked as if he were about to say something heated and fuming, but Morgan cut him off.  
  
"Was Angus Ciaran's friend?" She inquired, shooting Hunter a look. Hunter shot her a look of his own.  
  
Killian shrugged faintly.  
  
"Friend, foe," he replied quietly. "Who can tell these days? It only matters what you have at the time that the other person wants that determines anything."  
  
"I can understand that," Mr. Niall agreed quietly from behind. Morgan glanced back at him. He was staring at the compound, taking in all the sights: the buildings, the shrubbery, the overall peacefulness of the place. A look of longing overcame his features, as if this were the peace he had been looking for for so long.  
  
"The clearing's just around here," Killian said and led them around another bend, an outcropping of natural rock that looked like a hand reaching to the sky. It blocked from sight a beaten path that ran through leafy ferns and bushes, then disappeared within the wild tangle of a small grove. They were shadowed and dark, but Morgan saw the faint traces of dim light, like glow globes, gracing the bark and leaves of the trees.  
  
Killian led them down the path and through an overhanging tangle of branches, and, finally, into the clearing. Morgan gasped.  
  
They danced with absolute abandon, pounding their feet into the earth like drums. Hands tossed skyward, heads flung back, their bodies twisted and moved as if rhythm itself were running through their veins. Hyena-like cries, yelps and caws, animalistic sounds filled the air. And around those beautiful, freely moving forms glowed the slight traces of magick. Gold, yellow, sparks of fire and light, the mighty forces of nature tracing its ways up through their limps, between their skyclad legs, between their toes.  
  
Morgan felt her magick rise to join them, to join their dance, to join their magickal weave, but she squashed it, however difficult that was, and watched, her eyes finally landing on her father in surprise.  
  
Ciaran McEwan.  
  
He stood at the farthest end of the clearing, like a dark king watching, eyes glittering within the darkness of the grove as if the otherworld itself had graced him with eyes of all-knowing power. His lips were curled into an unreadable smile, his hands braced against two oaks that grew side by side. He stood away from the powerful magickal working, but he looked as if he were just as much apart of it.  
  
"Water, Goddess, mother, life," chanted one of those gathered.  
  
"Earth, thunder, womb, born," chanted another.  
  
"Fire, feeling, heart, light," cried someone as they spun faster and faster.  
  
"Air, mountains, winds, storm," cried another.  
  
"Spirit," said the dark drawl of Ciaran's voice. "Spirit."  
  
"Spirit," came the echoing chant from all. "Spirit, guide us. All-knowing. All-seeing. The Akasha. The Nun. The Creatrix. That which is void and yet full. That which is invisible, but seen."  
  
"What the hell is going on?!" Hunter called out, but no one heard, and if they did, didn't care. He turned to Killian, the anger evident on his face. "Ciaran isn't supposed to be practicing magick. He was stripped of his power."  
  
Killian's glare was like ice. "He's not casting anything—"  
  
"Are you sure of that?" This time Danial Niall spoke up and his voice was like cold steel "Are you sure your father's not changing the wards on this place?"  
  
"He can't!" Killian protested. "He can't do anything like that. No one can. The wards on this place are older than anyone here, if anyone tapered with them beyond their use, then that person would be killed!"  
  
Morgan's head whirled back to the circle as Ciaran spoke again.  
  
"Water," He intoned.  
  
"Water, Water, Water," came the echo. "Goddess, mother and life..."  
  
"Earth," Ciaran whispered.  
  
"Earth, Earth, Earth," came the resonance of voices. "Thunder, womb and born..."  
  
"Fire," Ciaran crooned.  
  
"Fire, Fire, Fire. Feeling, heart and light." Like a ricochet from tree branch to tree branch, power building, rising. The wind whispered, the earth sang.  
  
"Air." Ciaran caressed all who were gathered with his words.  
  
"Air, Air, Air. Mountains, winds and storm."  
  
"Spirit." The softest brush of silk against their magickal senses.  
  
"Spirit... All-knowing. All-seeing. The Akasha. The Nun. The Creatrix. That which is void and yet full. That which is invisible, but seen."  
  
"Now, send the power," Ciaran ordered fiercely. The glow around the peoples' bodies became intense, like the thousand thousand blazings of dying stars, showering the universe with their last lights before being snuffed out forever. This glow, this intensity, this light was sent skyward out of the clearing, fanning out into the atmosphere, finally dissipating and disbanding like a sprinkle of stars across the Milky Way. Then it disappeared altogether.  
  
Morgan took a deep breath, not realizing she had been holding it, watching as the people in the clearing came down from their magickal highs laughing and joking, but still within the thrumming thralls of their craft.  
  
"This is magick," said Killian softly. "This is the Cleansing Rites, to keep all negative and positive forces out of this place. It is neutral ground. So neither good nor evil can have its sway or influence on this place's goings about." He turned to them. "Da can't possibly be changing the way this place was made, but he can lead the Rites. He's done it before, once or twice, and while he can't join the magickal weave, he can still guide it with his voice alone."  
  
"Would it be able to stop the dark wave's might?" Morgan asked timidly.  
  
Killian shrugged.  
  
"Honestly?" He shrugged again. "No one's ever tested it out. No one's ever wanted to test this place's old magick. It sits on a direct powerhouse. There is an underground river that empties out to the sea, flowing underneath the pastureland. There's the pastureland itself. There are the hills in the distance, and there's an old kiln that the ancient witches set up some time ago. Water, Earth, Air and Fire."  
  
Morgan nodded in awe. "A Powerhouse of magick?" She breathed. "Wow."  
  
"Yeah," Killian said with the slight shadow of a smile.  
  
"Well that's all well and good," Hunter cut in, "but we've got business to attend to." He stepped forward into the clearing and cleared his throat. He said loudly," Ciaran McEwan of Clan Woodbane, I, Hunter Niall, Seeker of the Council, have been sent to you. By order of the International Council of Witches, you have been summoned and commanded to appear before its High members for matters of importance."  
  
There was silence in the grove for a moment as heads turned and some gathered looked on with puzzlement. Morgan watched Ciaran as he stepped gracefully from between the oaks, eyes trained on Hunter. His face was unreadable.  
  
"Ah," he began his voice a dark whisper that carried," it seems I can't keep the council from meddling in my affairs, then." He turned to Killian. "I thought I told you—"  
  
Morgan saw Killian visibly shiver.  
  
"I know, Da," he replied shakily," but they need you. You have to—"  
  
"Ciaran McEwan," interrupted one of those gathered from within the circle. He was a tall, bearded man with a grandfatherly look about him. His eyes were guarded pools of green-hazel. "This is a hassle we do not need. These Council members threaten the very fabric work that has been cast upon this place. Remove them, for your problems are not a concern of ours."  
  
"Understood, McDunn," Ciaran replied in a clipped tone. He sent Killian a fiery glare before sweeping past Morgan and the others, out of the grove. They followed.  
  
"McEwan," Hunter growled heatedly as the older man was about to turn the bend on the dirt path that led back to the houses. He stopped and looked back at Hunter with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "You will come."  
  
"Will I now?" he said, amusement creeping into his tone. But it was a dangerous sort of amusement. Much like a cat's, when playing with a mouse, until it grew bored and snapped its neck. "Go back to your council, Seeker, and you tell them, that under no circumstances am I inclined to follow their orders." And then he turned on his heel and continued up the path.  
  
Morgan heard Mr. Niall's slow, angry hiss beside her and felt the fury radiating off of him in waves. Hunter was doing a good job of holding his rage at Ciaran in check; she wondered what it was like for Mr. Niall seeing Ciaran. What emotions could possibly be running through his system, watching his age-old enemy openly defy the council's orders and parade that defiance in their faces.  
  
"CIARAN!!" Hunter shouted angrily, but the older man ignored him and continued walking. He added furiously, "He's not going to listen to us."  
  
"What can we do?" Morgan asked, fearing that she might have to risk this compound's ancient spells and power by putting a binding spell on her father and dragging him off to the car.  
  
"I don't—"  
  
But Hunter was cut off when Killian stepped forward with a determined look on his face. He opened his mouth and said something in Scottish. Morgan frowned, but had no time to ask Hunter or his father what the words could possibly mean; Ciaran had stopped abruptly in his tracks. He turned, an unreadable look frozen on his features.  
  
"No, you don't, Killian," Ciaran growled angrily. "Don't you dare."  
  
"I will," Killian said in a warning tone. "You can't walk away like this. What about Cal? What about your promise?"  
  
"What about them?" Ciaran hissed, baring his teeth.  
  
"I won't let you do this," Killian whispered. Morgan went to him and placed a shaking hand on his shoulder. She'd never heard her brother talk like this, act like this. And what was he talking about? What promise? What did Cal mean to Ciaran? To the both of them? What ties did either of them share with Cal?  
  
"Won't you?" the older man replied, turning on his heel once more. Morgan backed away from Killian and into her boyfriend's arms, watching as her brother took a deep breath and shut his eyes. For a moment, he did nothing and Ciaran was moving farther and farther away. Then he opened his mouth and spoke, "Meomhair bhur bangadh."  
  
Like silk running over soft skin.  
  
Again, Ciaran froze in his tracks, but this time, when he turned back to their small group there was a stricken look upon his face, marring his handsome features. A look of someone who had lost so much and could not take losing anymore.  
  
Killian spoke again, "Meomhair bhur bangadh."  
  
The world around her quivered for a moment, pressing in around them, leaning in as if to listen to this one word spoken, and she felt something old and ancient rise from the earth, ready, waiting. The faint flicker of old runes of protection and negation shimmered in the air for a moment before fading like a dream.  
  
The wards! Whatever magick Killian was invoking was setting off the wards of this place, not necessarily attacking his use of magick, but not necessarily liking it either. She could feel the guarded nature of the old magick, feeling around the edges of Killian's words, tasting it, trying to sense its intention. She turned back to her brother as she felt Hunter's grip upon her shoulders tighten for a moment in concern.  
  
"Don't—Don't do this, Killian," Ciaran stumbled in an uncertain tone. "Don't."  
  
"You leave me no choice, Da," Killian replied, finally opening his eyes and staring blankly at his father. "Will you adhere to the council's summons?"  
  
Ciaran clenched his jaw. His eyes were dark, black holes of blazing anger. He did not answer.  
  
"Will you adhere to the council's summons?" Killian asked again, more forceful this time. Still, Ciaran remained silent.  
  
Killian took one more deep breath, opened his mouth to speak.  
  
"Yes," Ciaran ground out before Killian could speak another word. "I will adhere."  
  
"Your word?" Killian asked. Ciaran nodded quietly.  
  
"My word."  
  
Killian's body seemed to slump with some infinitesimal weight as he released whatever magick he had been invoking, watching as his father stalked stiffly away down the path and disappeared around the bend.  
  
Morgan approached her brother and placed a hand on his shoulder once more. He turned to her and smiled weakly.  
  
"What did you do?" Hunter asked in wonder. "I thought you said no dark or light magick could be cast in this place."  
  
Killian looked at him for a moment, before swallowing a dry throat and saying, "It wasn't dark or light. It was....a reminder."  
  
"A reminder?" Mr. Niall asked puzzled. Killian nodded and sighed.  
  
"Can we go?" Killian asked wearily. Morgan nodded and turned to Hunter.  
  
"Yes, we'll head back to the council headquarters," Hunter replied. "Are you sure Ciaran'll..."  
  
Killian nodded exhaustedly.  
  
"Alright then," Hunter said, still casting Killian strange looks. "We can go."  
  
And led everyone back to the car.  
  
Author's note: Did you like? After much revising on this story ( i still can't iron out the kinks in Hunter's character...he doesn't seem Hunter-ish to me), how did it work out? And for anybody who're Irish-Gaelic-Scottish scholars, don't mind me and my foolish attempts at language.....o.0  
  
(My second language is German, okay?!!! o.0)  
  
MacBain and MacFarlene Dictionary sources:  
meomhair: remember  
bhur: your  
bangadh: promise  
  
I'll post as fast as I can...which don't mean diddly to any of you, but wah!!!!!!!!!!!!!   
  
Reviews are golden!!!!  
  
C'mon...give a starvin' artist something! 


	7. SECRETS

Author's Note:

This is - I don't know - long...maybe...anyway, to Witchyliz, in answer of your question - which is partially spoiling the plot, but eh...i like your question, gives me the chance to rant...okay, now...to answer your quesion without a long philosophy: Are they gay?...no....wait...yes...wait...no...wait...yes....

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm ??, urh...i wouldn't say they're gay, parse (Not to mention if Ciaran did actually exist he'd probably hunt me out and skin me alive for even alluding to homosexuality...eeeek!), they just have my philosophy on life: there is no homosexuality, there is no lesbianism, there is no heterosexuality...there is just (urg, I'm gonna be sappy) LOVE ..... ...

THERE! YOU MADE ME SAY IT!!! o.0 ;).

I mean, Ciaran loves women..if i read all of his bios right, and probably has alot of experience, but then there was Cal. And so too did Cal have experiences with women, but then there was Ciaran...and......... You'll see how it works out...SHHHHHH! Don't make me say anymore or i'll ruin the plot. Anyway, i believe that - in the world of fiction - any character can find and be paired with another that is good and right for my works...So, I think, i made them this way to give a different perspective and because the wicked plot bunnies wouldn't leave me alone.

My rant is done....ON WITH THE SHOW!!!

THIS IS FOR YOU, VIC...FOR ME NOT UPDATING SOONER!!

Chapter Six: SECRETS

Yule, 1998, Seattle

There's magick in the air. Pure, unbridled, unbound magick. It's like someone suddenly released the floodgates and let the mighty river's waters come rushing through. I don't know how to describe this happiness I feel, this elation. I haven't been this happy since...since...Well, I can't remember.

Finally, I can take a break from all the draining magickal workings we've been doing here in Seattle and focus my energies on this wintery celebration. There are so many faces to see and sounds and voices. Many of the guests are my mother's; people she hasn't spoken to in years. Old friends, really. People that have the same belief as Amyranth about our Clan and a true Woodbane's calling.

The Yule fires burn and people are dancing, ceremonial robes flapping in the wind. And the evening gets even more exciting when more members of Amyranth, finally, arrive. My mother's been brimming with excitement, even if she tries to hide it. Me, I'm not as bashful. It'd be my second time seeing Ciaran McEwan since last year in New York. The last time, we'd been attacked by a rival coven of Rowanwands that had wanted us dead: me, because it would hurt my mother; my mother, because of some vendetta.

I had already had pre-concieved notions about Ciaran, before last year, but nothing had prepared me for the man upclose, nor did it prepare me again when he arrived.

I had snuck upon him and his select group, as they were being greeted by some members of Turneval and some members of my mother's newest formed coven in this city, Blight. His voice was smooth, as I remembered. And it sent shivers up and down my spine as I watched him from my hideaway under the cover of a bush.

But my staring must've hit some primal cord because soon -when the others were distracted - Ciaran turned his beautiful face to my hideout, his dark, smoldering eyes staring piercingly into the pocket of leaves and twig, where I was hidden.

Guiltily, I moved slightly into view. His eyes took me in slowly, with appraising familiarity. Then he smirked, eyes lingering on mine for just the briefest of moments, a strange sort of amusement flickering through them, then disappearing as he turned back to Turneval, Blight and the others that had come with him, moving to join the festivities.

My soul holds so much elation in it tonight. So much, I think, I'm going to burst from the sheer joy and immensity of it.

Yes, this, indeed, is a good Yule.

- Sgath

"Almost time," Hunter said quietly, seated with Morgan, holding her hand tightly in his own. She nodded and sighed.

He watched her.

He would've - if he could have - taken her away from all of this. Away from having to be wrapped up in the council's schemes, from having to relive all of Cal's memories and knowing what he had thought of her. He didn't want for her to be apart of this, no matter how long ago the past had been buried.

When he thought of all the things that had gone on between Cal and Morgan, the things that could've happened, the dark plans Selene had made, the lies and deceit, an overwhelming sense of rage filled him. Even now, Hunter could feel the boiling anger rising in his sytem, moving through his blood stream. He swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed the anger aside.

He couldn't afford that here. He had to be as neutral and objective as possible or he wouldn't find out anything. He couldn't afford being emotional - it was everyone's lives at stake, because if another dark wave was coming.....

Hunter held back a shudder.

"In an hour or so," Killian replied to Hunter's earlier observation, standing a way from Morgan, Hunter and Danial Niall. He was at a window, looking out over the horizon, where the clouds were gathered, churning and frothing as they had been for the past couple of days.

'A bad omen,' Hunter thought vaguely and put his arm around Morgan. She leaned into his chest and sighed.

"An hour," she mumbled."Great."

They were seated in a smaller room than the council's library, having arrived earlier that day, driving non-stop to get back in time, weary, but determined. The room was a type of study with dark hued wall paper and pictures of some of the council's older, deceased patrons hanging proudly on the walls. There were a few small, squat book shelves around the room and a few display cases housing other, older books and a few gem stones. In the center was a table, large enough to seat seven; there Morgan, Hunter and Danial sat. And on its surface, propped on a small platform, was Cal's Book.

It didn't look as worn or battered as Kennet had said. It was old, with the frayed corners books would normally get from the weathering of time, but the words that still proclaimed it as a "Book of Shadows" were still written in their silvery letterings and the binding of the Book was still as shiningly gold as it had been, with Celtic symbols still intact.

Hunter had the strangest feeling that that Book was glaring at him. He looked away from it and instead turned his attention to Killian.

He looked uneasy as he stared out the window, arms crossed, gaze shadowed. In a few hours, the ritual was to be preformed, and Ciaran MacEwan was no where in sight. But, for some reason, Hunter wasn't alarmed. Whatever, Killian had done the day before, made Hunter trust his word. He still didn't trust him as far as he could throw him, but... it was enough.

The door to the small study came open, the creaking of its hinges shattering the silence that lay blanketed around them. Kennet stepped through the door, carrying a small chest with ancient writing, and took stock of the gathered and sighed.

"We are missing one," he said gravely, laying his wooded chest on the table.

"Yes, Ciaran," Danial spat, like it was a curse.

"But he will come?" Kennet pressed, turning to Killian. The other man nodded slowly.

"He should - "

Hunter turned at the sound of heavy footfalls coming from outside, in the hallway, echoing and re-echoing, reverbrating from wall to wall. It sounded like the march of a thousand angry horses and suddenly his heart sped up to match the sound of those angry steps.

_Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump._

It was like a thundercloud of tension had settled over the room as Killian froze, standing stock still, staring at the door from which Kennet had emerged with both fear and apprehension.

"He's...here."

Hunter turned to Killian as Morgan trembled slightly in his arms. He pulled her tighter to him, wrapping her in a cave of warmth.

He would protect her.

He would protect her. He would. He would.

He would, dammit!

He turned back to the door. His eyes widened as his face drained of color.

Here it comes.....

It was like the force of a freight train barrelling through the door, nearly ripping it from its hinges and falling to the floor with a crash. It swung open violently and admitted one very wrathful Ciaran McEwan.

It didn't matter that he had been stripped of his magick. It didn't matter that Hunter had been there, had been the one to do it. It didn't matter that the Council had thoroughly investigated Ciaran McEwan before ever letting him proceed to having a "normal" existence.

No, none of that mattered.

Because Ciaran McEwan was not to be trifled with. He stood in the doorway, an awesome figure, face twisted into a snarl of angry rage. He rushed at Killian before anyone could stop him, grabbing a fistful of the younger man's shirt and slamming him into a wall.

Hunter paused in momentary shock, hearing the angrily hissed words ground out from Ciaran's lips, "If you ever pull a stunt like you did yesterday, Killian. Goddess help you, the damn Council won't even be able to save you from my wrath...."

And then he was moving, with his Da and Kennet to get Ciaran off of his youngest born. And there were shivers running up and down Hunter's spine as he lay a hand on Ciaran's arm and felt the muscles rippling underneath his clothing and skin. He swallowed, very much afraid.

"Ciaran - " His father started venomously.

The older McEwan whirled on Danial Niall, as Killian slumped to the floor, with a glare that could light hell's inferno. Hunter fell back and watched in awe as his father stood tall, glaring at McEwan with as much glacial ice to meet his angry fire. They just stood there, glaring at each other with such intensity and such hatred, until Kennet cleared his throat and said, "If you'll please have a seat?"

Ciaran broke contact enough to glance at Kennet. A dismissive glance that told the older Seeker exactly what Ciaran thought of him and this little setup that the council had arranged, and exactly where he could shove that setup too. He sent Danial one last look before complying and sitting down and crossing his arms over his chest.

Hunter went over to Killian, who had not moved through out the entire exchange, seated where he had sank, on the small study's floor.

"C'mon, Killian," Hunter said softly. "We've got to get started."

The other man nodded slowly, his face such a gray mask of solemnity that even Hunter had to blink in surprise and wonder what the hell this situation was doing to all them. At the end of this, would they all be solemn-eyed? Was Cal's affect on people just that bad?

It must've been, if this entire situation were any indication. Just three days ago, they were happily enjoying a vacation away from the stresses of Widow's Vale, but now....

Hunter turned to Morgan as Killian slowly rose and took his place at the table beside Danial. She met his gaze worriedly. He produced a weak grin for her benefit, re-enforcing in his mind: 'I will protect you, love. If it's the last thing I do...'

He took a seat beside her as everyone got quiet, even Ciaran McEwan, and Kennet stood to speak.

The silence was heavy.

And it seemed that Killian's and Ciaran's shock was greater than Hunter's, Morgan's or Danial's had been when the spell had been explained to them days ago. Ciaran sat rigidly in his chair, a rush of emotions going through his eyes like a monsoon at full force. His jaw worked and there was something...just something...

Hunter couldn't put his finger on it.

Just...something odd....

Maybe the way Ciaran was sitting, maybe the way his fist clenched and his knuckles turned white. Maybe it was the sudden glance that he darted at Killian and the look of understanding that had passed in their eyes when their gazes had met....

Wait, look of understanding?

How could those too possibly understand anything about the other? And it made Hunter wonder for the veryfirst itme since all this had started: what ties did Ciaran and Killian share with Cal?

Could it have been Amyranth?

No, no. Hunter dismissed that immediately. Maybe....

Maybe, a favor? But then what would that have to do with the both of them? Maybe it was a spell or something? Hunter banished that idea immediately. It just didn't seem logical for either one of them to be present.

Hunter and Danial were blood.....

Morgan love....

Ciaran and Killian...hmmmmm...Friendship, perhaps?

Hunter banished that too. It was just too weird.

"Do you understand what is being required of you?" Kennet asked both McEwan males. Killian gave a hard swallow and nodded.

"I - I under - understand."

Kennet turned to Ciaran expectantly. The other man's jaw worked, but his lips didn't part to say a word. His eyes were still blazing with emotions, but these seemed to be of a different sort. They were the kind that happened in lonely musing, when one thinks of the transgressions of the past and wonders, in all of life's profound glory: why did I make that mistake? And why can't I change it? His brown eyes drifted to Cal's Book that rested at the center of the table.

Ciaran's jaw worked again, and this time he said, in a hardened tone," I understand."

Kennet nodded slowly as if he were some judge, finally able to close a most unpleasant case.

"Then we shall begin...." He retrieved the wooded chest he had brought in earlier, laying all but forgotten to side, and opened it. He pulled out two candle holders and set them on the table, then the candles, thin and white, and placed them in the candle holders. "We shall need to hold hands, the connection must be strong and unbroken. Remember, it is with our hearts beating as one that we can hope to achieve the success of this spell."

Hunter nodded in agreement and took a deep breath. He watched Morgan take hold of Killian's hand and then Killian take Danial's. Danial and Ciaran looked at each other with disgust for a moment, before swallowing and sparingly grasping the other's hand. Hunter would have laughed, had it not been Ciaran and his father. He remembered once his Uncle Beck doing the same thing to him and Linden when they'd gotten into a nasty fight over something insignificat and hardly worth remembering. They'd refused to go near each at first, but evetually they knew Uncle Beck's patient would run out sometime. So, they swallowed their pride and shook the other's hand.

The memory brought back a pain so deep and sharp and profound that Hunter had to hold back a sob and grasped Morgan's hand tightly. Then took hold Ciaran's.

It was warm to the touch, and solid, and he felt a spark of electricity run through him as the older man's skin brushed against his.

Now, he wanted Linden back more than ever. To see his brother's smiling face, to maybe wake up and know that everything that had happened was a dream....Maybe not Morgan, maybe not finding his Da, but everything else... Finding out about Cal, having to deal with the lose of his mother, having to deal with Ciaran McEwan and Amyranth and the lies and the deceit and the pain, and those nights when sometimes he'd still wake up in a cold sweat, hearing the sobs around him and seeing Alwyn's face across his memory telling him that Linden was gone forever.

They'd lost so much. Were they going to lose more now that they were plunging into Cal's secrets? Submerging into the brain of the prodigal child of Woodbane's darkest terrors and magick?

He was interrupted by Kennet's voice, outside of their circle, softly rushing through his mind,"You are now bound as one. Feel your hearts slow, your mind to cease all functions save to breathe and feel...Now, reach your energies out, find the lingering sources of magick from Calhoun Blaire's Book of Shadows....Find his magick and let it draw you into his world..."

Hunter felt Morgan shiver beside him and squeezed her hand reassuringly. She squeezed back.

With an inaudible sigh, Hunter reached his magick out. The other's were reaching too, even Ciaran, although his magick was faint, useless, almost as if he were a a non-blood witch trying to cast a major spell in the first year of their initiation.

And then he tasted it: Cal's specific brand of magick. Surprisingly, it wasn't what he had imagined. It wasn't harsh or deceptive...Just...sort of...lulling almost...pulling him into...Hunter felt his eyes flutter shut.....

"Feel his magick..."

Hunter was drifting farther away from consciousness.

"Feel his magick..."

Drifting...

Drifting...

Until, finally, he was gone...

A/N: YAY! I'm DONE!!!! WOO-hoo!!!

Tell me whatcha think? Good? Bad? Horrible? Okay, don't tell me the last one...But please tell me if you liked this one...(gives puppy dog eyes) Tis the only one with a chapter that was exclusively Hunter's 3rd person POV.

R&R's are golden!!!


	8. The GoldenEyed

Title: Black Rose, Part II

Part: The Wicked

Author: Cyberpunk2909

Webjournal:

Fandom: Sweep Books series

Rating: R

On Going series: Roses of Binding

Classification(s): Song-fic based chapters (All chptrs)

Warnings: See previous chapters

Pairing(s): Cal/OC, Cal/Every character (with obvious exceptions ppl :p) Cal/Ciaran (Yes! I am a sick and twisted soul!)

Author's Note: The LOOOOONG awaited Part II of Black Rose in which we delve inside of Cal's head. Holy Jesus H. Christ, Batman! Um…Wrong story…riiiiiight.

Alright after an ungodly, long ass writer's block (six frickin' months!), I have been slowly, but surely getting back into the groove of things, so if this don't sound like previous chapters, you know why. Now! Onward ye merrily, mightily writing pens!

_O we are wearied of this sense of guilt_

_Wearied of pleasure's paramour despair,_

_Wearied of every temple we have built,_

_Wearied of every right, unanswered prayer,_

_For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high:_

_One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; and lo! we die._

Oscar Wilde, _Panthea_

Chapter Seven: The Golden-Eyed

The world was dark.

Dark like the shadows underneath one's bed in the deepest hours of night's twilight. Dark like the void of space is dark, with the absence of stars' light and universes' fire. Dark like the cosmos at the beginning of time, when the silence of creation was thick and alive and teeming before exploding into a brilliance so white and so powerful it shocked the darkness and the darkness fled in its wake.

It was that type of dark.

Hunter breathed, but could feel no breath escaping his lungs, swallowed but could not feel the reassuring leap of his throat muscles working. He couldn't feel his feet, his hands, his fingers, his toes. He couldn't hear his heart beating in the cave of his chest even though he knew it was thundering like a panic-stricken deer running from its predator.

And for a moment he was gripped in the same thralls of panic: Where was he? What was going on? What happened to the small study? Kennet? His father? Ciaran and Killian? And, mostly importantly, what happened to Morgan?

There was an absence of life in the world around him.

He licked lips he could not feel, clenched into fists ghosts of his hands, breathing deep, ghostly brow creasing, jaw tightening, swallowing a phantom dry throat again. He stepped forward on phantasmic feet, faltering slightly, unsure of which way he should turn. Left? Right? Keep going forward?

This darkness was impregnable.

_Hello!_

His voice was a dull, hollow echo. It ricocheted around him as if he were standing in the center of the reverberating halls of an acoustical cathedral.

_Hello!_

_MORGAN!_

_DA!_

_CIARAN!_

_KILLIAN!_

Nothing answered save his own voice coming back to his ears and the silence. Hunter grew uneasy; was this type of thing supposed to happen? Was he supposed to be walking alone in a world where he couldn't see not two feet in front of him? Was this the workings of the spell?

Hunter stepped forward, but stopped again when he felt a sudden tendril of cool air brush across his face. He froze as the brush of fingers moved like silk along his jaw.

_He-Hello…_

His voice non-voice faltered as the sounds of clinking glasses and the low, murmuring din of a large crowd of people gathered floated to his ears. But whoever the phantom crowd was their voices sounded muted and indistinct as if he were standing behind a thick, closed wooden door straining to catch snatches of conversation. He did catch a few words:

"…Simply fantastic…"

"…Outdone yourself…"

"…He's like a little ang—…"

Hunter strained his ears, leaning forward on existent non-existent feet, hoping to hear more. But none was forth coming, and he was left to ponder over the snippets he had heard.

Who were the voices talking about? He'd never heard any of them before in his day-to-day goings about. Were they people Cal knew? Was this one of the situations Kennet said the spell would show him? What was it: Times or periods of high emotions?

But before he could ponder further, Hunter heard the briefest whisper of a strange something rustle behind him: the flutter of owl wings? The hiss of silk soft clothing sliding across skin? He turned on ghost feet and looked behind him with eyes that were there not there. But there was nothing save the darkness before him and the murmuring din of voices behind.

What's going _on_ here? He wondered to himself, as his phantasmic brow creased in concern. What's—

The caress was simple, a brush of someone's hands playing wistfully in his hair before traveling like a summer breeze down his back. It seemed to rush through his skin after a moment. Through skin and muscle, twisting around his sinew, wrapping around the very marrow of his bones; Hunter gasped, but the breath was stolen from him as an alien presence stole into his mind…

There were whispers…

_Can't…_

_The visions too much…_

_Need release…_

_I always see the Hammer…_

_The Lady…_

_The Knight…_

_The Wizard…_

_The Prophet…_

_Must…_

_Can't get away…_

_Hurts…_

_Hurts…_

_Hurts…_

_Make it stop…Make it stop…_

_Make it…_

And then he was swept up in a tide of emotions, a living memory wrapping around his spirit, his soul, tying his fate irrevocably to the boy—the young man—he'd sworn he hated, loathed with every ounce of his being…

The emotions embraced him, and quite suddenly, so subtle, but still so sudden, he was no longer Hunter Niall, but a young, olive-skinned, golden-eyed boy standing at the edge of a cliff face, wondering briefly what it would feel like if he were to fall…

… Cal stood, frowning at the crashing coastal waters just off the edge of the cold cliff face as clouds churned in the sky above and the ocean lay like a writhing, disturbed blanket below. He stood and breathed deep of the salty, sea air, licked his lips and tasted the bittersweet tang of it on his tongue. Behind him, standing like an old hag bracing itself against the winds, sat his mother's manor. At one time it had been beautiful—you could see it in the way the columns reached up in towering heights to hold up the roof overhang that rested above the door. You could see it in the way the window shutters banged mournfully against the buildings walls, knowing that at one time or another they had been fixed to open and close without so much as a peep. You could see it in the way the bay window looked out over the beaten cliff face and towards the frothing sea.

Perhaps at one time that window had been used to see which ships would be coming into harbor, but no longer…Now it stood open, allowing the cool breeze that was blowing off the ocean swells into the attic—the place that had become his room.

Below the manor's bulking height, down a winding, twisting road and a steadily dropping slope rested a town. A small town, its population only reaching into the low thousands. A real homey place, his mother had said. Easily trusting. Before they had arrived here, Selene Belltower had had this place scoped out.

There was a court house, a jail and a police station that sat in the same red bricked, two story building that rested at the town's very center. From there, every other building seemed to expand outward like a spiral: the elementary and middle schools sat next to the local church, the high school in back of the local supermarket, a row of strip malls and one or two bars, and lastly, the houses sprang up like shoots of weeds from the earth.

Cal grunted, remembering the disdainful look that had crept upon his face as they passed the houses and denizens of the town driving toward the manor. He remembered, and could feel the disdain creeping upon his young, thirteen-year-old features again. He felt as if he were in Salem, Massachusetts, just before the outbreak of the witchcraft hysteria. This town felt like a powder keg with a lit fuse burning a slow, steady path towards the gun powder. The feeling twisted inside of him, much like the sea twisted with the tale-tell signs of a coming storm.

It was just something…Something in the air…Something that told him that everything that his mother had planned, everything that she had contrived would fall to pieces…Nothing good could come out of Rest haven Falls.

"Cal…"

He turned at the sudden call of his name and saw his mother waving from the back door of the house. Her hair was pulled back into a stern white and black, salt and pepper-colored bun, her golden eyes, so much like his and yet completely different, were gleaming with an inner fire as he glanced back one last time at the churning sea waters then turned back and walked toward his mother's beckoning voice. She was wearing a skirt of the deepest midnight blue, a shirt of elderberry purple and a black shawl hanging about her shoulders like a spider's web; he often thought of his mother as a spider: weaver of fates, mistress of time, but also the great trickster, the huntress, the deceiver…

He hid his thoughts within the depths of his mind as he approached his mother and her golden eyes took on a sharp, piercing quality. He had had an unnatural fear as child that when his mother had fixed him with that look, she was reading his mind. Perhaps it was the common fear of all little children, but even now—thirteen and standing an inch or two under the sweeping curve of her chin—he was still gripped by the apprehensive thought and buried his musing under a thick blanket in his mind to ponder on later.

"Yes, Mother," he said rather formally and saw the wince pass through her eyes before it was swept under a mask of calm. He knew she hated it when he called her that, but how could he think of her as anything less? She was Selene Belltower and he was Calhoun Blaire. Their lives weren't the peaceful, serene happiness of normal families. They were witches, powerful ones, belonging to a powerful Clan. Such niceties didn't exist for the likes of them.

"The last furnishings for your room have been set in place," she replied stiffly. "You can go and take a look if you'd like."

Cal smiled at her briefly, and she was caught off guard; he didn't do that much around his mother either. He nodded, still smiling and said, "I think I will. Thank you, Mother." And swept passed her through the small pantry before stepping through the doorway that lead into the kitchen. He could almost imagine the surprised look on her face evaporating into small satisfaction.

There were people in the kitchen as Cal entered, a few members of Amyranth he'd become acquainted with over the past few weeks since they'd left Missouri and came here to Resthaven Falls. Ricky Travis and Mitchell Grieves, two men from the Los Angeles chapter of Amyranth, sat at the table poring over a book from his mother's personal library as Carl Meyer, a man who'd fallen in league with Selene in Missouri, stood by the stove making tea. All three men looked up at Cal's entrance and eyed him with a mixture curiosity and awe. He ducked his head, murmured a swift hello and fled the room with those eyes still watching him, burning perplexed holes into his back as he left.

He hated it when people stared at him like that, as if he were a strange creature on display. His name had been passed amongst the ranks of Amyranth in whispers and hushed voices of wonder. His golden eyes, so much like his mother's almost a mirror of amber and tiger's eye, but wholly different, were whispered of too. That was partly why Ricky and Mitchell were here. Some of the higher members of Amyranth were taking an interest in him and not just because of his mother's influences.

He stopped in the deserted expanse of the hallway, leaned against the wall and breathed. It was filled with the smell of lilac and rose, and something else, something that tickled his nose as he inhaled and tasted like a cool breeze when he exhaled.

The undercurrent of magic.

Someone was casting: protection spells, it felt like. He was becoming more and more adept at detecting types of magic, rather than feeling that initial kiss of it when he came into its vicinity. His mother would be proud of him, and with the thought of his mother in mind, Cal remembered why he'd come inside in the first place: to see his rooms.

He continued down the hall to a spiraling staircase that disappeared into the upper reaches of the house, and in the dim light of the cloudy day, he could almost imagine that he were not traversing the staircase of his mother's manor but instead was traveling up the grandeur stairways of Notre Dame. Not that he had ever been there, but it was fun to imagine. He placed his hand upon the stairway banister and started up but was stopped part way by a call from behind. He turned as Carl emerged from the kitchen doorway with a smile plastered across his lips.

Cal watched the older man's approach.

Carl was a forty-something, balding man with a robust face and a pot belly; Cal couldn't fathom how his mother could stand the man. The smile Carl was sending him now was a snake of a grin, Cal thought. Deceptively kind.

"Is there something you want, Mr. Meyer?" Cal asked in a voice that told the man clearly that Cal wanted nothing to do with him at all.

"Oh? Nothing at all, _Mr_. Blaire," Carl replied in voice dripping with honey. "Just came to see you up the stairs."

"And here I thought you said it was _nothing_," Cal replied, voice dripping with just as much sarcastic honey.

"Well, then I suppose it isn't at all then," the older man said without missing a beat. He smiled again. "But I suppose since I've got your attention for once, maybe you'd answer some questions for me?"

_For once_. Cal fixed the man with a sneer, but he continued to smile and smile and smile, Cal's obvious hostility not fazing him.

"You know why I'm here, don't you?" he asked.

Cal crossed his arms over his chest and regarded the man silently. Carl continued as if that were all the confirmation he needed.

"Those eyes of your's," Carl said. "There aren't many people in the world with eyes that are golden."

Cal smirked. "Sure there are. You're just blind."

"Golden." Carl looked thoughtful. "But not that shade of gold. They're like gems, you know. Tiger's eye—"

"Is there a point to all of this?" Cal interrupted irritated.

Carl smiled that snake smile of his. "Oh, just wondering. You're such a special boy, Cal. A special child."

"My mother tells me that all the time," Cal snapped. "You're wasting my time with old news, Carl."

For a moment, the man's face changed. For a split second, Cal saw something other than that dripping sweetness. Something… Something…

Cal took a step back, up the stairs with a suspicious glare. The man stepped forward, hand rising to—

—Cal looked up suddenly at the brush of something against his mind like someone bumping suddenly into him and nudging him hard in the ribs. A shadow flittered across his vision for a moment—

"Don't!" Cal hissed before the man could reach for him and quickly ascended the stairs to get away. The man was still standing at the bottom of the stairway with his hand partly outstretched as Cal disappeared around a hall besides the stair landing and fled to his room.

Author's Note: Pooh! Had to shorten it because stupid, space reasons, but that's okay! YAY! I'll have the other part posted by the morrow, but other than that, what'd you think? Anyone? Anyone?

Reviews are the golden hunny that makes pooh-bear go yum!


	9. Shadows in my View

Title: Black Rose, Part II

Part: The Wicked

Author: Cyberpunk2909

Webjournal:

Fandom: Sweep Books series

Rating: R

On Going series: Roses of Binding

Classification(s): Song-fic based chapters (All chptrs)

Warnings: See previous chapters

Pairing(s): Cal/OC, Cal/Every character (with obvious exceptions ppl :p) Cal/Ciaran (Yes! I am a sick and twisted soul!)

Author's Note: Here it is……Whatever this is…Um, yeah…On with the show!

CHAPTER EIGHT: Shadows In My View

Unsettled is what he felt as he shut the door to his bedroom and leaned against it with a heavy sigh. What he'd seen in Carl Meyer's eyes left him slightly breathless and shaken.

Something…

Just something…

Something strange… A kind of…Devotion?

Cal didn't wanted to think about it, didn't want to see those eyes—those inky, brown depths—widen in his mind and see that man's hand reaching out for him…Reaching to…

Cal looked up at the sudden whistle of the wind as it blew like a raspy whisper in from the bay window to his left. His mother had been right; his room did look as familiar as it had been in Missouri, as it had been in every other city they'd traveled through: the bed was set facing the window with thin, silkened draperies hanging from four posts standing proudly at the bed's corners. His dressers, wardrobe, mirror, traveling chest and rugs were almost exactly as he remembered them, his desk and book shelf standing side by side with candle holders mounted in the walls beside them. Cal turned, and in a cleared space near his wardrobe, sat a small, unopened chest made of cedar wood with criss-crossing metal work playing across its front, back and sides, ending in a large, ornate lock. He didn't go to that small chest right away. Instead, he went to his mirror.

It stood taller than his smallish, five foot three inches height, an ovalish shape with writing in old Latin along its outer edges. Cal stood in front of it for a moment, studying his reflection: eyes, the same, odd gold that Carl had spoken of, gleamed from the unblemished surface with a glittering intensity like fractured crystal, gleaming out of a face with soft curves, a mouth that would grow wider in coming years of puberty's assault and dark hair that curled along his neck in soft, wisping strands. He flecked at one of them absently with an olive-toned finger that would become longer and more spider-like in grace in the future.

His gaze traveled back up to his eyes.

Golden.

Golden eyes.

Carl had been about to reach for him, but why? And that look in his eyes, the gleaming in those inky, brown depths—Cal swallowed, glaring at himself.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Calhoun," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Just some dirty ol'man's fantasies of greatness."

But he was afraid. Afraid of what his golden eyes could mean. Afraid of the whispers that were passed around about him amongst the other Amyranth chapters.

Cal swallowed again and blinked—

—A shadow flitted across the mirror: a flutter of a long black robe, the gleam of red from a cowl covered eye, a flash of steel and a low, ghostly grunt that left Cal breathless with familiarity—

—He turned with a start, but he was alone in his room. Cal breathed and frowned, stepped forward then stopped. He looked around again.

"Are you here?" he asked in a low voice. The wind blew in from his window, hissing and whispering through the air, stirring the bay window's shutters. They banged against the manor walls with low thumps as Cal turned and looked up.

Smiled.

"You warned me, didn't you?"

Cal smiled again.

"You always warn me of trouble."

There came the mournful echo of something old and ancient in the air as the winds died down and silence fell upon the room once more. Cal stepped forward, reached out his hand…

…And a large, glove-clad hand took hold of his in a grip that was surprisingly gentle for something so large. Cal looked up and stared deeply into eyes that gleamed red underneath the folds of a black hood…

"Carl's bad, isn't he?" Cal asked, the question sounding juvenile to his ears, but he didn't care. The mournful note hung in the air again, like the echoing silence after a church bell tolls and leaves a deafening quiet in its wake. Red eyes gleamed deeper this time, with a malice that was not directed at him.

"I figured." Cal turned and looked behind him at the bedroom door where he imagined Carl still stood at the bottom of the stairway beyond. He shuddered. The large hand tightened around his own, feeling surprisingly solid and warm for something so intangible. Cal turned back, meeting gleaming red eyes again with a small grin pasted across his face.

The silent bell tolled again.

"I'm not afraid," Cal replied undaunted. "You're here."

There was a low creak from beyond his door and Cal gave a start at the intrusive sound. He turned again, almost imagining he heard the breathing of someone standing very close to that slab of polished wood, trying not to make a sound, only listening, straining to hear. Cal held his breath and frowned. Was it Carl?

Soon there was a definite sound of someone moving beyond his door, a rustle of clothing, louder breathing. He almost imagined a hand poised to knock. Cal nibbled his lip, kept his eyes on the door, hoping to whatever powers could be listening that it was not Carl.

_Not Carl._

_Not Carl._

_Please not Carl_…

The man had made him uneasy even before that little fiasco downstairs, but the unease had been so small that Cal had ignored it. He kicked himself mentally now. Perhaps if he'd told his mother about it, perhaps if he'd informed her of Carl's strange out-of-place-ness among the others—Mitchell and Ricky—she might have listened to him and left the man and his strangeness in Missouri. Sometimes, she listened to his little hunches about people and had been saved from many stupid mistakes.

Cal swallowed and released the breath he had been holding when whoever it was had knocked, but that didn't stop a lurch of fear from twist his stomach into knots.

"Come in!" he called, reciting his new found mantra: _Not Carl. Not Carl. Not Carl…_

And it seemed the gods were kind: his mother stepped into his room with a perplexed look.

"Cal, are you alright? Who were you talking to just now?" And cast her eyes about his room suspiciously, golden eyes, so much like his and yet totally different. He wondered why her eyes weren't like his.

"No one," he answered and turned away from her, knowing that red eyes gleaming under black hood with an intangible hand that still felt real and solid and alive—well, all those things to his mind anyway—was gone. Disappeared like the breeze, as if none had ever existed at all.

"Are you sure?" And it was a stupid question—she must've known—and Cal felt it his duty to tell her how stupid of a question it was, but froze when he turned back to her. Her golden eyes were narrowed in that way of her's that made him afraid to think his secret thoughts within his conscious mind.

"No one, Mom." He added the 'Mom' bit to get her off his case; it always worked before. This time it didn't. Her eyes just narrowed further and she said in a low, silken drawl as if she didn't care (But Cal knew she did): "You would tell me, though, wouldn't you? About anything? If you were…" She trailed off and Cal got the message: If something were happening in his head, if he were seeing things and knowing things that she wouldn't ever know, or fathom, that he would tell her. Tell her everything.

Cal nodded, smiled off-handedly, like she had trained him to. She smiled, just as off-handed, and they—mother and son—left it at that.

When she finally closed the door and left him to his own doings, Cal sighed. There was no way life could be as simple as leaving "it", whatever "it" was, at that.

(8.8 . . o.0)

Author's Note: Okay, how crazy was that! o.0 Cal the crazy kid. Jingkies, I don't know where this stuff is going or coming from, but eh, I'm rolling with the punches here people. So yeah…

Reviews are golden! Thanks!


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